Zuleika Dobson by Max Beerbohm (i am reading a book TXT) 📕

She envied Mélisande, so nimbly and cheerfully laborious till the day should come when her betrothed had saved enough to start a little café of his own and make her his bride and dame de comptoir. Oh, to have a purpose, a prospect, a stake in the world, as this faithful soul had!

“Can I help you at all, Mélisande?” she asked, picking her way across the strewn floor.

Mélisande, patting down a pile of chiffon, seemed to be amused at such a notion. “Mademoiselle has her own art. Do I mix myself in that?” she cried, waving one hand towards the great malachite casket.

Zuleika looked at the casket, and then very gratefully at the maid. Her art⁠—how had she forgotten that? Here was solace, purpose. She would work as she had never worked yet. She knew that she had it in her to do better than she had ever done. She confessed to herself that she had too often been slack in the matter of practice and rehearsal, trusting her personal magnetism to carry her through. Only last night she had badly fumbled, more than once. Her bravura business with the Demon Egg-Cup had been simply vile. The audience hadn’t noticed it, perhaps, but she had. Now she would perfect herself. Barely a fortnight now before her engagement at the Folies Bergères! What if⁠—no, she must not think of that! But the thought insisted. What if she essayed for Paris that which again and again she had meant to graft on to her repertory⁠—the Provoking Thimble?

She flushed at the possibility. What if her whole present repertory were but a passing phase in her art⁠—a mere beginning⁠—an earlier manner? She remembered how marvellously last night she had manipulated the earrings and the studs. Then lo! the light died out of her eyes, and her face grew rigid. That memory had brought other memories in its wake.

For her, when she fled the Broad, Noaks’ window had blotted out all else. Now she saw again that higher window, saw that girl flaunting her earrings, gibing down at her. “He put them in with his own hands!”⁠—the words rang again in her ears, making her cheeks tingle. Oh, he had thought it a very clever thing to do, no doubt⁠—a splendid little revenge, something after his own heart! “And he kissed me in the open street”⁠—excellent, excellent! She ground her teeth. And these doings must have been fresh in his mind when she overtook him and walked with him to the houseboat! Infamous! And she had then been wearing his studs! She drew his attention to them when⁠—

Her jewel-box stood open, to receive the jewels she wore tonight. She went very calmly to it. There, in a corner of the topmost tray, rested the two great white pearls⁠—the pearls which, in one way and another, had meant so much to her.

“Mélisande!”

“Mademoiselle?”

“When we go to Paris, would you like to make a little present to your fiancé?”

“Je voudrais bien, mademoiselle.”

“Then you shall give him these,” said Zuleika, holding out the two studs.

“Mais jamais de la vie! Chez Tourtel tout le monde le dirait millionaire. Un garçcon de café qui porte au plastron des perles pareilles⁠—merci!”

“Tell him he may tell everyone that they were given to me by the late Duke of Dorset, and given by me to you, and by you to him.”

“Mais⁠—” The protest died on Mélisande’s lips. Suddenly she had ceased to see the pearls as trinkets finite and inapposite⁠—saw them as things presently transmutable into little marble tables, bocks, dominos, absinthes au sucre, shiny black portfolios with weekly journals in them, yellow staves with daily journals flapping from them, vermouths secs, vermouths cassis⁠ ⁠…

“Mademoiselle is too amiable,” she said, taking the pearls.

And certainly, just then, Zuleika was looking very amiable indeed. The look was transient. Nothing, she reflected, could undo what the Duke had done. That hateful, impudent girl would take good care that everyone should know. “He put them in with his own hands.” Her earrings! “He kissed me in the public street. He loved me”⁠ ⁠… Well, he had called out “Zuleika!” and everyone around had heard him. That was something. But how glad all the old women in the world would be to shake their heads and say “Oh, no, my dear, believe me! It wasn’t anything to do with her. I’m told on the very best authority,” and so forth, and so on. She knew he had told any number of undergraduates he was going to die for her. But they, poor fellows, could not bear witness. And good heavens! If there were a doubt as to the Duke’s motive, why not doubts as to theirs?⁠ ⁠… But many of them had called out “Zuleika!” too. And of course any really impartial person who knew anything at all about the matter at first hand would be sure in his own mind that it was perfectly absurd to pretend that the whole thing wasn’t entirely and absolutely for her⁠ ⁠… And of course some of the men must have left written evidence of their intention. She remembered that at The MacQuern’s today was a Mr. Craddock, who had made a will in her favour and wanted to read it aloud to her in the middle of luncheon. Oh, there would be proof positive as to many of the men. But of the others it would be said that they died in trying to rescue their comrades. There would be all sorts of silly farfetched theories, and downright lies that couldn’t be disproved⁠ ⁠…

“Mélisande, that crackling of tissue paper is driving me mad! Do leave off! Can’t you see that I am waiting to be undressed?”

The maid hastened to her side, and with quick light fingers began to undress her. “Mademoiselle va bien dormir⁠—ca se voit,” she purred.

“I shan’t,” said Zuleika.

Nevertheless, it was soothing to be undressed, and yet more soothing anon to sit merely night-gowned before the mirror, while, slowly and gently,